


Star-Spangled Dick With a Plan

by doctormccoy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom!Bucky, Buttplugs, Dirty Talk, Dorky Flirting, M/M, Pizza for Breakfast, Porny Oneshot, Rough Sex, Ugly Sweaters, burned pancakes, with some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormccoy/pseuds/doctormccoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky was just trying to make Steve breakfast.</p><p>Steve had other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star-Spangled Dick With a Plan

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Star-Spangled Dick With a Plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652199) by [Lovesss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovesss/pseuds/Lovesss)



> So basically this was born from a beautiful conversation me and [Sarah](http://jamesbuckybarnes.co.vu/) had, that started with discussions of Bucky in frumpy sweaters and ended with a play by play of a morning at the Rogers household.

Bucky didn’t plan on doing much else that morning, other than making pancakes.

He was still getting used to it, to the freedom of just getting to make it up as he went along. It was difficult, after decades spent doing Hydra’s bidding, to wake up not knowing what was going to happen next.

It was nice. 

It was nice because it meant getting to wake up to the feeling of the sun on his skin, peeking through the curtains as the morning dawned, crisp and fresh. It meant getting to roll over and open his eyes to see Steve’s face, smoothed over and peaceful as he slept. 

It meant getting to lean in and kiss him, softly as not to wake him, before slipping out from under the sheets and tugging on his boxers from last night. He can’t find where his t-shirt landed, when he’d blindly tossed it away between deep, searching kisses from Steve. In his defense, he had better things to think about in that moment than making sure he could locate his clothes later.

He calls off the search and rescue when he finds Steve’s beat up grey hoodie and tugs that on, instead, infinitely amused by the way the sleeves engulf his hands, and the hem falls low enough that he might as well not even be wearing boxers at all. It used to be the other way around, back before the war. Steve was always wearing Bucky’s clothes, despite the fact he was usually swimming in them. 

Bucky shrugs and rucks the sleeves up enough to reclaim the use of his hands before he makes his way into the kitchen, grumbling faintly at the chill of the tile beneath his bare feet. He’s been living with Steve for almost a year, now, and he still hasn’t figured out that he owns slippers for this exact reason.

He stifles a yawn and sweeps his messy hair back into a lazy bun, squatting down so he can rifle through the cupboards for the flour and sugar. A pile of ingredients starts to collect on the counter beside the stove, and Bucky doesn’t bother to measure anything as he combines them all in a bowl. He knows this recipe inside and out, now, after several early failed attempts at cooking. There was something relaxing about it – mechanical and straightforward, without being boring or soulless. Bucky liked cooking, especially for Steve. 

Just as he’s greasing up the pan and pouring out the first pancake, a pair of arms snake their way around his waist, and he can feel someone mouthing against the back of his neck, gentle and unhurried. 

Seven months ago, Bucky would have sent Steve through the wall if he were taken by surprise like this. It was a testament to how far he had come in his time with the other man that all he did was snort in laughter, head tipping pointedly to the side so Steve’s lips have more skin to worship.

“Good morning to you, too, lazy ass,” he chuckled, resting his metal arm on top of Steve’s while the other hand flips the pancake, admiring the even, golden brown surface.

“Mmhmm,” Steve hums, still occupied with kissing every inch of Bucky’s neck that he can reach, holding the former assassin snug against his chest. Bucky certainly wasn’t about to complain, sinking into the contact and shivering at the teasing brush of Steve’s lips, until he remembers the pancake in the pan. 

It’s definitely burned, and he sets it aside with a discontented grumble, scooping out more of the pancake mix into the pan. He’d been trying to save time by just making them each one, big pancake, instead of a bunch of smaller ones. Now he’d have to either make more mix, or, they’d have to share. 

“Stop distracting me, you little punk,” he orders gruffly, trying to shake the other man off and failing miserably. Steve does, at least, stop kissing his neck, instead opting to rest his chin on Bucky’s shoulder and watch as he cooks. 

Bucky thinks it’s just about time to flip the new pancake, when a finger is suddenly invading his line of sight and there’s a sticky wetness on the end of his nose.

“The fuck, Rogers?” 

He turns his head to stare daggers at the other man just as Steve leans in to kiss the end of his nose, grinning smugly as he licks the pancake batter off his skin. Bucky’s entire face scrunches up at the unexpected contact, and he’s pretty sure that he needs to make Steve regret doing this at a later date. Something to do with sriracha in the ketchup bottle, maybe.

He softens a bit when Steve kisses his mouth, and sighs, placating, his eyebrows arching towards his hairline at the way Steve’s hands are ghosting coyly down his sides.

“I bet you think you’re being subtle as shit, huh?” he asks between kisses, letting the larger man hoist him up onto the counter and spreading his knees for Steve to slip between them, head cocked to the side and lips pursed in silent laughter. 

Steve shrugs and reaches up to pull Bucky’s hair loose from its messy bun, fingernails scraping lightly over his sensitive scalp.

“Subtlety is dull, whereas forthrightness gets me exactly what I want,” he pointed out, leaning in to nudge his mouth against the curve of Bucky’s throat, teeth worrying a bruise onto the smooth patch of skin.

Bucky’s breath hitches at the prickle of pleasure-pain, reaching out to tug at Steve’s boxers even as Steve’s using his grip on his hair to yank his head back and expose more of Bucky’s neck to his greedy mouth, the former assassin trying to hitch him closer with his knees around his hips. 

He’s this close to shoving Steve away so that they can find a more amenable surface for this, like the table or the floor or basically anywhere except this tiny ass counter, until the smell of burning pancakes fills his nose and he groans, pushing Steve back for an entirely less thrilling reason.

“You little shit, I was going to feed these to your undeserving punk ass in bed, and now you’ve gone and burned them both,” Bucky grumps, turning off the stove and using the spatula to scrape the charcoal mess out of the pan and into the trash, shooting an unimpressed look at the entirely unapologetic man standing behind him.

“Yeah, Buck? That was your plan, huh? Romance me like my sweet little housewife, feedin’ me breakfast in bed?” Steve teases lightly, grinning as he ducks under the spatula that’s tossed in his direction. 

“You’re lucky that I don’t want to sully my pan with your burned skin, or I’d throw this at you next for being an idiot,” Bucky warns, brandishing the hot frying pan like a weapon of mass destruction in front of him. He carefully cools it with a bit of warm water from the sink before he leaves it to soak, not looking forward to having to scrub off the burned remains of the pancakes later.

He folds his arms over his chest and turns to focus his ire back on Steve, who has the decency to at least look a little regretful at ruining Bucky’s breakfast scheme.

“Now we’ve got a mess of dishes and no breakfast. What do you suppose we do now, you star-spangled dick with a plan?” he asks sourly, gesturing at the mixing bowls he’d used to make the batter, and the soaking pan.

Steve ends up calling for pizza, while Bucky stands by the fridge and scoffs at how ridiculous it was, ordering a pizza at seven in the morning. Who even delivered pizza at seven in the morning? Everyone, apparently, when Captain America was the one placing the order.

“They said it’ll be about forty five minutes,” Steve reports as he hangs up the phone, and Bucky rolls his eyes at that, looking put upon as he turns to walk away, hand waving vaguely through the air.

“I guess that gives you enough time to make it up to me for ruining all my hard work, then,” he calls over his shoulder, and he can hear Steve’s rapid, eager footsteps following him into the bedroom.

Bucky sheds the hoodie on his way to the bed, shucking his boxers down and stepping nimbly out of them before he climbs up onto it, sprawling out on his stomach with his arms folded neatly beneath his cheek. He feels the bed shaking as Steve joins him, and snickers when his hands are immediately on Bucky’s ass, his mouth trailing kisses down his spine.

“I ain’t doing any of the work, Rogers. I wasted all my energy on burning your breakfast,” he snorted, spreading his legs apart but otherwise doing nothing to make it easier for Steve. 

“Isn’t it lucky, then, that I already fucked you open last night, then? Bet you’re still all loose and sloppy for me, Buck,” Steve hummed, undeterred, and Bucky jerks against the bedspread when a saliva damp finger pushes its way inside him, resisting the urge to clamber up onto his knees and beg for another one.

He had a weakness for Steve’s filthy mouth in bed, but, two could play that game.

“Then just go ahead and fuck me already, Stevie. Stick it in me and leave me even more open and messy than I already am,” he snarled into the blankets, pleased by the way Steve’s breathing hitches. He’s rewarded with a second finger, his body opening up easily to the probing digits, and smirks, rolling his already half hard cock down against the bed.

“Imagine the poor pizza boy getting an eyeful of your come leaking down my leg, with how sloppy open I’ll be.”

Steve is chuckling when those fingers pull out and Bucky hears the faint, wet sound of him slicking himself up. He expects the hands that pull him up onto his knees, and the blunt pressure of Steve’s cock pressing against his hole. 

What he doesn’t expect is those hands then moving to grab at his wrists and tug them back to fold together at the small of his back, leaving his face and chest pushed into the bed. 

“What sort of dirty little plan are you concocting here, you brat?” he asks, his breath hitching and accent thickening when Steve uses the one handed hold he has on Bucky’s wrists to pull him back onto his cock, and arousal kicks Bucky in the gut, sending a flush of color to spread across his shoulders.

“Jesus, baby, _yes,_ ” is all he has to say and Steve yanks him back, hard, shoving his cock into Bucky’s body until his balls are snug up against his ass.

“You look so good like this, Buck,” Steve growls, using his free hand to cup the swell of one ass cheek and squeezing it, admiring the place where he’s buried inside the other man. Bucky retaliates by clenching down around Steve’s cock with all his strength, wriggling on his knees to try and get him to move.

“I’ll look even better when you actually fuck me, Rogers, now _move_ before I throw you on the ground and ride you like my favorite sex toy,” Bucky snaps, about to add that Steve really was his favorite sex toy when all of the air is punched right out of his lungs as Steve takes his words to heart.

There’s no preamble, or slow and steady increase in speed. Steve starts to fuck him, hard and brutal, right out of the gate, yanking Bucky back onto his cock every time he slams his hips forward. He feels like he’s bouncing on Steve’s cock, and he can do little more than hold on for the ride as he’s fucked, gasping wetly into the bed at the sharp, aching burn of pleasure. 

He’s moaning out pleas to Steve to go faster, and harder, relishing the lewd slap of Steve’s hips hitting his ass. It sounded loud and especially filthy in the small bedroom, and he adds to them with strangled cries and muttered curses, fingers curling into fists at the small of his back. He won’t be surprised if he finds bruises on his ass, later, to match the ones that Steve’s hands are digging into his wrists and hip. Bucky likes when Steve leaves marks while they fuck. He likes to rub his fingers into the sore spots, and remember how good it had felt when Steve was making them. And he likes the way they look on his skin – marks of possession, and desire, and need, not death or violence like the bruises he used to get.

“Yeah, baby, just – fuck – just like that, fuck m-me good,” he moans, each word pitching at the end with Steve’s hips jackrabbiting the ability to speak right out of Bucky’s brain. He swears in Russian when the hand Steve had been using to hold his hip moves to bury in his hair, yanking his head back until the muscles of his neck and chest burn. 

“I’ll fuck you nice and proper, Buck, just the way you deserve,” Steve growls, curling over Bucky’s body to bite at the curve of his throat, hips still pounding against Bucky’s ass. The new angle sends his cock stuttering by Bucky’s prostate with every thrust, and it’s like being hit with a tidal wave of pleasure, body clenching deliciously tight around Steve. Bucky feels like he’s being split in half and he can’t do more than surrender to every little whim of Steve’s, pinned as he was between the bed and Steve’s cock, his entire body aching from head to toe with the way all his muscles seemed to be straining to obey Steve. 

Bucky had been forced to give up his body and mind to Hydra. They had taken him and warped him into a creature he didn’t recognize.

But Bucky trusted Steve enough to _give_ his body and mind over to him, willingly. 

The choice to let himself be controlled was always his to make, and Steve had never once given Bucky a reason to doubt him.

“Steve, m’gonna.. Gonna come, Steve, I can’t-,” he moans, feeling the slap of his own, neglected cock between his thighs as Steve continued to piston into him, scalp burning at the tug of Steve’s fingers in his hair. 

“Then come, Buck. I’ve got you,” Steve whispers in his ear, and that’s all Bucky needs to hear to let go, shouting himself hoarse as he comes in hot, steady pulses across the sheets. Steve releases his hair to let his head fall forward, but continues to pull him back onto his cock by his wrists, fucking him through his orgasm. 

“Keep going,” he gasps wetly, even as the prickle pain of overstimulation began to buzz at the edge of his mind, “Want you to come in me, Stevie.”

The ragged moan this drags from Steve’s throat makes Bucky smirk, and he clenches his ass around the cock still fucking inside him, setting up a rhythm of tightening and relaxing his inner walls to drive Steve truly berserk. Just when the raw edge of too much too soon starts to overwhelm the former assassin, Steve is going abruptly still deep inside him, burying his face between Bucky’s shoulder blades as he rides out his orgasm.

Bucky can feel the spread of sticky, wet heat inside him and clamps down around it, sighing when, finally, his wrists are released and he can collapse forward into the bed. His shoulders, arms, and hips are all aching pleasantly from the thorough fucking, and his knees give out from under him when Steve moves back to slip out from inside him. 

He’s more than happy to lay there in his wet spot, except, Steve apparently has other ideas, and Bucky groans at the blunt pressure of a plug at his hole, back arching up as the toy sinks in just shy of his prostate, and shoots an unimpressed look at the smug looking man kneeling behind him.

“You seemed so concerned about your ass being too sloppy to keep it all in, so, I fixed the problem for you,” Steve said with the face of an angel, and Bucky aimed a kick at his knee, ass clenching around the silicone toy. 

“You just want to keep me open, so you can fuck me again after we eat, you shitty punk,” he snorts, hearing the faint buzzing of the doorbell in the distance. Steve leans in for a kiss that Bucky intercepts with his palm planted across his face, pushing him resolutely towards the bedroom door.

“You go get the food, and maybe after two or three slices of pepperoni and sausage I’ll feel generous enough to let you kiss me with that dirty mouth of yours.”

Steve’s still laughing when he comes back with their pizza, and Bucky gets some small enjoyment out of getting to feed him something, at least, even if it isn’t _quite_ the same as getting to feed him pancakes made from scratch. 

He gets up long enough to rummage through his bureau for something to fight off the morning chill still lingering in the bedroom, and tugs on one of his favorite sweaters, knitted together from brown, tan, and black yarn with a picture of something Natasha had called a Grumpy Cat stitched onto the front. She’d gotten it for Bucky as a joke. She hadn’t expected Bucky to stand up in the middle of the restaurant and pull it on then and there, eyes dancing with endless mirth. She, and everyone else, were far more embarrassed to be seen in public with him wearing it, and the rest of his odd assortment of ‘old man sweaters’, than Bucky was actually wearing the dreadful thing. 

To prove his point, Steve took one look at what he’d pulled on and groaned, trying to muffle his displeasure in a slice of Hawaiian.

“Bucky. Bucky, _why,_ ” came the predictable, plaintive whine, and Bucky snickered, sliding back onto the bed to sit on his ankles, so the plug buried in his ass wasn’t pressed against the mattress and pushed even deeper inside him.

“Because you keep asking that question, Rogers.”

He reaches over to steal a slice of pizza and groans as he demolishes it in a few quick bites, licking the grease from his fingers before snagging another one.

Steve is pouting around his slice, managing to look baleful even with his cheeks slightly puffed from the large amount of pizza he was chewing on. 

“You’re a jerk,” he grumbles, voice muffled by his mouthful, and Bucky flashes him a wolfish grin, reaching out to pinch Steve’s nose between his fingers.

“Takes one to know one, you stubborn punk.”

Maybe tomorrow Bucky would actually get to _finish_ making his pancakes.


End file.
